


Becoming a Number (against your best wishes)

by CurlyCue



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Abusive Reginald Hargreeves, Other, Self-Insert, because im the cringy self-inserter ur parents warned u about lmaooo, he's a shit and i hate him!, im also a victim of parental abuse so this is gonna be a FUCKING RIDE folks, the oc reader character is just me tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27337333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurlyCue/pseuds/CurlyCue
Summary: In which another of the 43 mysterious children finds themself within the clutches of a particular billionaire.(a self-insert fic)
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy)/Reader
Kudos: 13





	Becoming a Number (against your best wishes)

It is yet another dreary day in the city, both inside the mansion and out; the overcast sky doesn't let much light in through the windows of the foyer, but what does manage to filter through is murky and grey, mirroring the ubiquitous, oppressive atmosphere that comes as a result of being one of Sir Reginald Hargreeves' charges. Aside from the distant sounds of thunder and pounding rain, muffled by the enormity of the home, the only noise to break the apprehensive quiet is the occasional shuffle of uniform blazer sleeves brushing up against one another and the deafening silence of the old man's disdain.

Beside you, the children of the Umbrella Academy (including Vanya) stand in varying states of attention. Luther, as usual, stands ramrod straight with his hands folded neatly behind his back, a picture of Sir Hargreeves' perfect child-- if Sir Hargreeves could feel anything but disgust at the thought of children, of course. Beside him, Diego stands stiff in a poor imitation of his brother's stance, casting a sharp glance of irritation his way out of the corner of his eye, which Luther pointedly ignores. The only indication that he's seen it is the slight twitch of his lips which disappears too quickly to discern whether it's from disapproval or amusement. Allison stands proudly off to Diego's side, but despite her perfect smile and relative adherence to protocol, you can tell she'd like to be at Luther's side instead of being stuck between Diego and Klaus-- who, in fact, is the most casual of your odd little troupe. 

In stark contrast to his siblings, Klaus stands in a more natural pose, slightly slouched with his hands stuffed in his pockets like he's shoving them out of sight. A shadow of a grin flashes in his eyes when you glance over at him, and he nudges your right arm in a companionable fashion, but then he's facing forward again and that trademark easiness is gone, replaced by a cold, flinty look as his eyes fall on his father; you don't miss the way his brows set lower on his face in the slightest indication of a scowl, either. After a moment, your own gaze shifts to the boy on your opposite side, known simply as Number Five as of yet: the last of his siblings to be left undecided on a name, in spite of their mother's best efforts to help him choose. He, too, has his hands in his pockets; unlike his brother, however, it doesn't come off as casual-- instead, it's haughtier, careful, almost meticulous. For as long as you've known the Hargreeves, everything about Number Five has seemed calculated, almost fake-- but then he'll look over at you the way he does now, where his lips quirk upward just the tiniest bit and you see something alive in him; something the old man hasn't succeeded in stomping out yet. You hope he never does. 

On Five's other side is Ben, who stands shyly with his legs pressed together tightly as though he's trying to make himself smaller, less threatening, by way of self-compression-- as if the warmest, most compassionate of them could ever come across as threatening. He doesn't quite curl inward on himself, but you notice the way he keeps his neatly clasped hands in front of him, as if to come between the world and the monster that comes through the portal in his stomach. You want to reach out to the quiet boy, but think better of it in front of your collective so-called caretaker, whom you know for a fact will see it as weakness to display such compassion, connection, or anything else even remotely human.

And speaking of things the old man claims are weak-- at the very end of the line, contrasting Luther at the front of the line in every possible sense, is sweet little Vanya. Unlike Ben, Vanya wears her insecurity on her sleeve, making no attempt to disguise the inward slope of her shoulders. Her bowed head causes her curtain of hair to obscure her face, but you're sure even without seeing it that she's wearing her usual expression: the one that makes your heart ache for her in so many ways you aren't sure how to unravel it. 

A sharp clearing of someone's throat from above your heads finally, decisively shatters the silence you'd all been stewing in, and your gaze shoots up to the very man you owe your current situation to: Sir Reginald Hargreeves. Your lips curl into a sneer without your permission, but the command is clear-- _silence_ \-- and his cutting gaze and cold expression leave no room for debate. It takes everything you have to push down your disgust, but you manage it, even if it takes an unhealthily strong grit of your teeth and still leaves you with an overpowering sense of malaise.

"Children," he begins, expression already twisting into an ugly grimace, like the word itself coats his mouth with disgust: the look he nearly always has when he regards his charges. He stares down the bridge of his nose at you, as if direct eye contact is too horrid a thought. "You're already acquainted with Number Eight." The title is spoken with even more disdain than is normal for the man, and the idea of being called as such has you wrinkling your nose in barely contained fury. _"She_ will be joining you in training once more, as you are already accustomed to." Beside you, the Five and Ben stiffen, and your jaw clenches even more tightly; you think, in the back of your mind, that you might crack a tooth from the force of it. The silence over your group is heavier now, tense where before it had been expectant, and charged in a way that says everyone is thinking the same thing, but refraining from voicing it. "From this point forward, however, she will be a permanent member of the Academy. Pogo will be showing her to her new quarters."

Each use of the feminine pronouns brings your blood boiling higher, and by the time his speech ends with an expectant raise of his brows at the lot of you, you have tunnel vision, pulse roaring in your ears. There's a brief, infinite pause between the moment he stops and the moment you realize it, and that's the point where your blood-boiling makes the switch to energy crackling between your cells in a familiar sort of warning. "I'm not a girl," you say finally, the murmur breaking the tension holding your group hostage. Immediately, like flipping a switch, you feel the others staring at you in horror instead of their father. The eyes on you are mostly nervous, anticipatory, and maybe a little disbelieving-- all except those cold, dead eyes looking down at you, looking down _on_ you. 

You refuse to let him win. 

"Nonsense," barks Sir Hargreeves after a moment's glaring. He opens his mouth to say something else, but your bubbling emotions get there first, a heavy sort of static beginning to build up in the space between your fingers. Sparks crack outward from your fingertips as you clench your jaw and straighten your spine in defiance.

"I'm not." The volume and tone of your voice are just as strong as his own now, steady and righteous as you continue. "And I'm _not_ a number." 

You've already dealt with one shitty, controlling, abusive man, and it certainly hadn't ended well for him-- so although the memory of the aftermath turns your stomach, you know; your gaze turns steely, and you swallow the lump in your throat. You _know_ you'd win this fight if it came down to it. 

But then Five's sleeve is brushing up against your own, and you remember you're not the only one who'd be impacted by it this time if you acted on your instincts. You remember that, this time, you aren't alone. So, although it pains you, you tear your bristling gaze away from the old man's to rest on the floor with a grimace and a stormy feeling in your chest. Even without looking, you can feel that disdainful look trained solely on you, and you find yourself bracing for a typical Hargreeves punishment-- but it never comes. Instead, he merely gives a haughty sniff before continuing his speech. "As I was saying..." The confusion hangs heavy in the air between the eight of you like a fog, but it's not quite as heavy an atmosphere as it just was. Despite yourselves, you feel everyone-- yourself included-- begin to let go of the tension of the moment.


End file.
